100 Nights and Days Within The Circles of the World
by Angmar's Elfhild
Summary: One hundred tales of peasants and Powers, kings and commoners. Stories are set in the years prior to the War of the Ring, and feature the Rohirrim, the Nazgûl, Sauron, and other characters. Drama, humor, fluff, romance, adventure, introspection. UPDATED: Chap. 6 about the Witch-king and one of the Nazgûl.
1. Read This First - Updated Often!

_**100 Nights and Days Within The Circles**_

_**By Elfhild**_

**INTRODUCTION**

_List of Stories Updated Regularly, So Check Back Here Often!_

"100 Nights and Days Within The Circles" is a series of one hundred stand-alone drabbles, ficlets, and short stories that have been written in response to Virodeil's challenge, "100 Prompts," on the Faerie Tolkien Fanfiction Archive. All stories have been written by Elfhild and are based upon "The Circles of Power" series by Angmar and Elfhild. You can find links to The Circles books by checking out my profile. You don't have to read "The Circles" to understand "100 Nights," but it might be a good idea.

"The Circles" is set in an alternative universe in which the Witch-king survives the Battle of Pelennor Fields and Sauron regains the One Ring. The forces of Mordor manage to defeat the country of Gondor, but their forays into Rohan, while first victorious, are ultimately defeated. Unlike the majority of English-language fanfiction, the series features few canon characters, focusing instead upon exploring the underdeveloped lands and cultures of Tolkien's vast world. The canon characters who _do_ play major roles in the series are those who Tolkien depicted as evil: Sauron and the Nazgûl. However, there is no strict delineation between good and evil in The Circles, no black and white, only varying shades of gray.

Because "100 Nights and Days Within The Circles" is an anthology series, stories will take place in a variety of time periods, and few of them will be in chronological order. The events in "100 Nights" take place before the main "Circles" series starts, so I suppose one could consider this a prequel of sorts, if one wished. When I finish writing this series, I might rearrange the chapters so they do follow the logical progression of time. Most of the stories in "100 Nights and Days" will take place in the Third Age, although a few might explore the Second Age. Since these stories take place before the War of the Ring (where "The Circles" series deviates from canon), they can fit within the canon, although it should be known that my interpretation of Tolkien's works can be rather… different. But ALL fanfiction is apocryphal, is it not?

**LIST OF STORIES AND FEATURED CHARACTER OR RACE**

1. Fire: Nároméra (Maia, Third Age)

2. Pet: New Puppies (Rohirrim, T.A. 3014)

3. Transportation: The Aerie of the Ash Mountains (Sauron, T.A. 2952)

4. Plants: Living and Dyeing (Rohirrim, T.A. 3014)

5. Threats: A Letter from Dol Guldur (Witch-king and Nazgûl, T.A. 2941)

**REGULAR CHARACTERS IN "THE CIRCLES"**

Elfhild and Elffled - Two young sisters, identical twins, who come from a village called Grenefeld in the Eastfold of Rohan. When Rohan is attacked, the girls are captured by orcs and taken as slaves to Mordor.

The Nazgûl - These nine men are the highest ranking servants of Sauron, but that does not mean that they see always see eye to eye with their master. The Nine are the Witch-king of Angmar, once a high lord of Númenor; Khamûl of Khand; Gothmog and Zagbolg of Harad; Krakfhatal the Barbarian; Rut and Udu of Númenor; and Skri and Krith of Rhûn. The Nazgûl and Sauron fought a war over the control of the Nine Rings of Power from T.A. 2942 to 2951, but Sauron was able to defeat His rebellious servants and reclaim the Nine Rings. Since the One Ring was lost, the only way that Sauron could control the Nazgûl was by possessing their Rings, and He needed the Nazgûl for the great war He was planning. (See Chapters 39-41 of "Triumph of the Shadow," the first book of The Circles). Relations between Sauron and the Nine remain tense.

Sauron - The Lord of Mordor desires to rule the world which He feels is rightfully His own, and bask in the adoration and worship of all mankind. However, years of frustration and disappointment have begun to weigh heavily upon His mind, clouding His judgment and causing Him to fall into violent rages. Will He end up jaded and insane, just as Melkor did, before He ever sees the ultimate fruition of His plans?


	2. Nároméra

_Nároméra_  
_Chalelnge: Fire_

_Sometime in the Third Age..._

Shedding her form like a serpent sheds its skin, Nároméra stretched languorously as she felt the flames lick over her body. Skin of ivory darkened to a charcoal black, lit from within by the amber light that shone from the craquelure of her flesh. Demon of fire, fallen servant of Aulë, she cared little for the form which Sauron insisted that she assume at court, beautiful though it was in the eyes of mortal and elf. Ah, but when she was alone, she took sanctuary in the fire-mountains, following steam-filled tunnels deep into the earth until she reached the magma lake which smoldered at the volcano's heart.

There, in the molten sea of undulating fire, Nároméra danced, the viscous lava swirling around her body. Hair the color of scarlet turned to tendrils of flame, whipping around her face like a whirlwind and tangling about the curling horns jutting from her temples. Clawed fingers caressed over smoldering flesh; her body arched in ecstasy as demon's wings sprang from her back. Her emerald eyes, now burning with a white-hot fire, closed in rapture as she reveled in the flames, her furious heart beating in time to the churning torment of the earth.

***

NOTES

This is a double drabble, or 200 word story.

Nároméra is the "fire spirit" who serves as one of Sauron's courtesans in The Circles. She usually takes a humanoid form at the Court of Barad-dûr, but at heart she is really a Balrog.


	3. New Puppies

_New Puppies_  
_Challenge: Pet_

_Early Summer, Year 3014 of the Third Age_  
_The Eastfold of Rohan_

"Oh, how clever they all look, Aunt Frythegith!" a young girl of nine summers exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement. Her name was Elffled, and she had an identical twin sister called Elfhild. Daughters of a peasant farmer, the girls lived with their mother, father, older brother and grandmother in a thatched-roof cottage a short distance away from the village of Grenefeld. The village was located in the Eastfold of the Mark, just a short distance from the Mering Stream which formed the border between Rohan and Gondor. Elfhild was a cheerful, outgoing girl and an idealistic dreamer who was prone to fantasy and flights of imagination. Elffled, on the other hand, had a tendency to be shy and far more cynical than her twin, thinking more often than speaking.

Frythegith was the twins' aunt on their father's side, and she lived on a neighboring farm with her husband and two young children, Eadweard and Friede. Their dog had been expecting puppies, and just the night before, she had given birth to a litter of six. Now the proud mother rested upon a bed of soft, sweet-smelling hay in a quiet corner of the family's small barn, six tiny babies rooting at her white belly, greedy for more milk. Outside could be heard the cackling of chickens, the lowing of cows, and the ever-present drone of flies hovering around the various piles of manure scattered over the ground. Eaweard and Friede were scurrying about the yard, chasing chickens for sport as they made their way to the well to draw water for the animals.

"Would you like one of them?" Frythegith asked, looking to the twins. "Your uncle and I already have seven dogs as it is, and soon it shall as though we are running the thane's kennel."

The girls giggled at their aunt's words. "Well, Gamolfeax is getting old, and Father says that a new pup would bring some life to him," Elfhild remarked, thinking of her family's dog. The shaggy gray animal was older than she was, and she was going to turn ten on midsummer.

"Take a look at the pups, but do not bother them overlong - they are only a day old, and their mother has been through so much," Frythegith warned.

The girls knelt down beside the mother dog, petting her soothingly as they cautiously inspected the puppies. The pups looked much like their mother: golden to gingery brown with white socks and tails that curled over their backs. The dogs were of a common sort of breed, nothing fancy: a working beast used by the Eastfold peasants to guard their flocks and herds from wild animals and intruders. The girls glanced up as their two younger cousins came running into the barn: Eadweard and Friede had just finished their chores, and were excited to see their cousins again.

"Oh, you are looking at the puppies!" Eadweard exclaimed as he rushed over to stand beside the twins. "That one is my favorite." He pointed to the darkest pup in the litter. Eadweard was seven summers old, and was a happy, exuberant child with a face full of freckles and hair the color of straw.

"I think this one is the prettiest." Friede squatted down and petted a tan and white spotted puppy. "She is a girl, too." She looked up at everyone and giggled. Friede was five, and she had lost several of her front baby teeth, so her smile was a gap-toothed one.

"I like this little fellow the best." Elffled pointed to a chestnut brown pup with a white strip that ran from his forehead to his chest like a baby's bib.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" Elfhild asked curiously, looking up at her aunt.

"That one is a boy," Frythegith replied, gently picking up the pup. The long-suffering mother dog craned her head to watch, her folded over ears pricking up slightly. "What would you call him?" Frythegith asked, smiling.

Elfhild thought a moment before replying. "Brúwann."

"Oh, that is such a boring name," Elffled grumbled, rolling her eyes. "Can you not think of a better one?"

"Well, I like it," Elfhild protested, glaring at her twin. "Gamolfaex is called that because he is gray, so why not call this pup Brúwann because he is brown?"

"I think Brúwann is a good name," Frythegith replied in that indulgent tone adults use to soothe over children's disagreements. She returned the pup to his mother and brushed off her skirt, which had particles of hay clinging to the material. "Mother Dog has had enough visitors for the time, so let us leave her in peace for a while." She looked to her son and daughter and her two nieces. "Come, Eadweard and Friede, there is work to be done in the garden, and you two, Elfhild and Elffled, need to get back home to help your parents. The children and I picked a basket of strawberries earlier this morning, and I want you to take them back to your grandmother." Frythegith's husband's mother had not been feeling well lately… She hoped that the gift would cheer the elderly lady.

"Oh, I am sure that Grandmother will like that!" Elfhild exclaimed as she gave the mother dog a final pat upon her head.

"Mayhap she will make a strawberry tart for dessert tonight," Elffled remarked, a dreamy expression upon her face. "Oh, that sounds so delicious!"

As the twins walked the short distance back to their parents' farm, they speculated upon what sort of scrumptious treats their grandmother would create from the strawberries, all the while sampling the juicy red fruits. Though there would not be as many berries in the basket as there had once been, there would still be plenty for Grandmother to use in cooking.

***

NOTES

The dog owned by Frythegith's family is based upon the Austrian Pinscher, a dog which was traditionally used upon farms to kill rats and guard the animals.


	4. The Aerie of the Ash Mountains

_The Aerie of the Ash Mountains_  
_Challenge: Transportation_

_Year 2952 of the Third Age..._  
_Although He has dwelt in the Land of Mordor for nine years, Sauron has just openly declared His return and ordered that Barad-dûr be rebuilt. Yet still the Mountain of Doom slumbers..._

Clad in the simple robes of the nomadic desert dweller, Mairon, the Lord of the Earth and the King of Men, leisurely climbed the rugged hills and slopes of the eastern Ered Lithui. To the eye of a distant observer, the figure appeared as nothing more than an humble nomad, perhaps a shepherd in search of a lost sheep or goat. But yet, if the observer ventured closer, he would begin to sense an aura of ancient power and majesty surrounding the figure like the glowing halo around a brilliant flame, and this aura would become so great and terrible that the observer could not help but fall to his knees in sore dread. But there was no one around for miles and miles, and Mairon did not feel any need to cloak His power, for this land was, after all, His home. When He did take on the guise of a mortal man, it was usually for sport and amusement; how comical it was to think of the Lord of the Earth dressed as a commoner and carousing in Nûrniag taverns! The thought put a smile upon His black lips.

Pausing for a moment upon His meandering stroll, Mairon inhaled deeply of the mountain air, which bore the faint aroma of wildflowers. Ah, Eastern Gorgoroth in the springtime! During this time of year, the desert would burst into flower, and the warped and twisted succulents, spurges and scrubby bushes would be covered with brilliant blossoms. To the eyes of folk accustomed to green fields and dense forests, this land would surely seem a desolate waste, but in truth it was alive with hardy vegetation accustomed to dry and arid climes, the survivalists of the plant world. One had to be tough to survive in the northern regions of Mordor, for rain-bearing clouds were often dashed against the peaks of the Ephel Dúath, denying the land on the eastern side of the mountains the precious water of the heavens.

But despite the barrenness of Gorgoroth's rolling hamada, Mordor was still a place of savage, untamed beauty, a memory of Arda's appearance when she was young and newly formed. Too long had Mairon been away from His home, too long, and there was joy in His heart, a lightness in His step. Though Mirkwood reminded Him of the great forests of the elder days, still it could never compare to Mordor. He would miss Dol Guldur, but He looked forward to seeing Barad-dûr in its newly rebuilt glory. Construction upon the castle and its surrounding fortifications was coming along according to schedule, and soon the central tower would be habitable. He looked forward to sitting atop His throne and surveying His domain through the Window of the Eye, and gazing into the palantír to observe distant lands which would soon be in His realm.

A dark cavern peeking out from beneath the meeting place of two great mountains caught His attention, and Mairon ventured closer. Though He had explored Mordor from one corner to another, He was not sure if He had ever seen this place before, and He felt somehow drawn towards it. 'Twas mere curiosity, perhaps, or maybe something more... the vaguest, most ephemeral stirrings of inspiration tickled His mind like the softest of ostrich plumes. Yes, he had been here once… before Arda came into being, before the vision of the Great Music became reality. In a universe governed by a symphony, there were few true coincidences, for the course of time had already been written.

The dark shadows of the cave closed in around Him, and a pungent stench assailed His nostrils. He wrinkled His nose in displeasure, but He had smelled far worse: the fragrance of the forge, the smoky scent of coal, the choking reek of brimstone. All around He saw giant piles of stinking manure - filled with slivers of bone, buzzing with flies and writhing with maggots and worms. Though the stench and the sight of enormous piles of excrement would have caused many to flee the cave in fear and disgust, Mairon was one of the Maiar and had naught to fear from earthly creatures, no matter how great or terrible they might be.

He followed a winding passage which lead uphill and realized that this was not a cave, but rather a ravine whose steep sides touched each other and formed a ceiling of stone. At the end of the path, He could see a ragged circle of light, an opening to the sky which stood out in sharp contrast to the darkness all around Him. Emerging into the light, He found Himself looking out over a wide saddle where the sides of the two mountains came together. On one end of the rock shelf, there was a sharp drop which fell towards the plain below.

And then He saw them. The winged beasts, so like dragons but yet of a different kind entirely. Men and orcs living in Mordor called them farmakfîl, or lizard-birds.

Once there were many creatures akin to the farmakfîl - enormous beasts who were tall as towers, whose tough, armored hides bristled with horns and spines, whose mighty heads bore shield-like crests and tusks more mighty than any battering ram. In the old days, the more docile types were used as draft animals at Angband, for they were stronger than any team of oxen. Unfortunately, most of these great beasts had perished when Arda was made round, but a few still dwelt in the deserts and jungles, the wild places of the earth where few men tread.

Many types of farmakfîl lived in Mordor, but the ones which dwelt in this part of the Ered Lithui were by far the largest. Black and gray were the colors of their leathery hides, allowing them to blend in with the surroundings of their mountain lairs. The nomadic tribes who dwelt in Eastern and Southern Gorgoroth feared them, for they preyed upon their sheep and goats, and sometimes upon the nomads themselves. Still, brave men hunted them for sport, for the hides of the beasts were strong and tough and could be used for many different purposes. However, few of these hunters ever returned to the goat-hair tents of their villages, for only the most wily of foes could ever hope to best one of the farmakfîl.

Several of the creatures lay sunning themselves upon the black rocks, while others sought the cool refuge of nearby caves. They would become active later in the evening, when the air was cool and prey began to stir upon the nearby plain. The beasts regarded Mairon warily. Like all inhabitants of the animal kingdom, they possessed a certain innate wisdom, an intuition of sorts which allowed them to differentiate the weak from the strong, the prey from the predator, the friend from the foe, the Gods from the Men. This was not any hunter who would shoot at them with bow and arrow or hurl spears at their bellies, but one of the Guardians of Arda, an eternal Being who possessed power beyond their simple comprehension.

Mairon smiled to Himself. Though He was no longer beautiful, He still possessed His ancient charm, that insidious power of seduction which allowed Him to topple great kingdoms without ever raising a sword. He began to sing a song of soothing to calm the beasts, and soon they gathered around Him, purring and gurgling in contentment. Continuing to sing His mystical melody, Mairon patted their great heads and spoke to them, telling them what fine creatures they were. He wished that He had brought some dried beef or mutton for the beasts, but, alas, He could give them no treats, for when He set off on His journey, He had not expected to pay a visit to a farmakfîl lair.

The largest beast in the fearsome aerie, a dominant young male, seemed to have taken an especial liking to Mairon, and impatiently butted his fellows away so that he could have the Maia's attention all to himself. Lumbering closer, the massive farmakfîl nosed at Mairon's hand, then nuzzled his giant head against His palm. Although the creature was young, Mairon sensed that someday this farmakfîl would be one of the largest in this part of Ered Lithui, if not the largest in all of Mordor. Knowing the speech of all animals, Mairon divined that the beast was known among his fellows as the Mighty Black One, and so Mairon called him Durmor in the tongue of the Dark Land.

As Mairon gave Durmor's head a good scratch, a wild thought struck Him, and the mind of the Lord of Mordor reeled with the possibilities it held. So like the Great Eagles were the farmakfîl… And on rare occasions, the Great Eagles permitted passengers to ride atop their feathery backs. In fact, there was a relatively recent account of them rescuing some dwarves in Wilderland. Now that was a strange tale, and something about the whole affair bothered Mairon, but He was not sure exactly why.

...He could not let such a trivial matter affect His schemes, however, and so He pushed the matter from His mind. He devoted all His thought to pondering the question which had so fascinated Him:

Could these farmakfîl be tamed and used as flying mounts?

If such a thing was possible, it would revolutionize communication and travel. No longer would it take weeks or even months to send letters to distant allies. This would be of great benefit in the war which He was planning, giving Mordor an advantage which the West would never have. His mind entertained thoughts of flying archers unleashing torrents of arrows upon the armies below...

But He was counting His farmakfîl eggs before they hatched.

In order to be ridden safely, these beasts would have to have saddles and bridles. Mairon saw no problem in devising a saddle which would fit the creatures; there would have to be straps and harnesses for the rider's safety, of course. The bridle, though - now there might be a problem. Continuing to sing to Durmor, Mairon gingerly ran a finger along the side of the creature's leathery mouth. Any bit would have to be made of sturdy stuff indeed, lest it be snapped in twain by the beasts' razor-sharp teeth. A bridle around the snout might have to suffice instead... or maybe a nose ring like the nomads used on their camels. A harness of some sort might be the best idea, for it would allow the rider to have the most control over the beast. Naturally the reins would have to be very long in order to accommodate the long necks of the creatures.

A thrill of excitement raced through Mairon. He was far too impatient to wait for a saddle or bridle to be fashioned; the only thing that mattered in the world right now was determining if these winged beasts could be ridden like horses. Summoning forth the innate powers which gave Him mastery over nature, Mairon focused His will upon Durmor, prodding at the creature's mind with gentle yet irresistible force. Durmor, lulled by the soothing melody, had no fear of the Being before him, and in total trust he submitted to Marion's will. Both creature and Master were as one, a union of perfect harmony.

Willing Durmor to extend his long neck and bow low to the ground, Mairon mounted the farmakfîl as though he were a horse. The creature squawked and stirred uncertainly, for he was unaccustomed to the weight of a rider upon his back, but Mairon soothed Durmor's fears with a few soft words of comfort and reassurance. He commanded Durmor to fly, and the farmakfîl ran along the rocky ground, his powerful wings beating the air. The edge of the precipice raced towards them, coming closer and closer.

And then Durmor leaped from the rock shelf, his mighty wings stretching wide.

For one sickening moment, the great beast hurtled towards the earth, but then his wings caught the breeze and he rode the currents, soaring ever higher in wide circles.

They were flying!

Mairon closed His eyes, savoring the feeling of the wind in His hair, the breeze buffeting His cheeks. He thought back to the days when His favored form was that of a vampire, and He would soar through the night sky in the shape of a giant bat. He seldom shape-shifted like that anymore, for it always seemed that He was recovering from the destruction of His body. Over three millennia had passed since the Siege of Barad-dûr, but His old wounds still pained Him sometimes, even though His body was new. He looked down at His nine fingers, feeling a pang of terrible sorrow and loss...

Suddenly a vision came to Him, murky around the edges as though viewed through a palantír. Nine riders atop the great beasts. Nine riders of the winds.

He had seen this vision once before...

Nine riders in the skies, nine harbingers of war.

The Nazgûl.

Mairon looked down at the nine glittering rings upon His fingers and smiled.

Soon His servants would have new mounts.

***

NOTES

In early days, Sauron was once known as Mairon the Admirable.

The use of the fell beasts in The Lord of the Rings always seemed like a recent development. From all that I have read, the fell beasts are not mentioned until the late winter of 3019. The soldiers of Gondor seemed very surprised to see these winged creatures, so apparently they had not been utilized in any conflict until the War of the Ring.


	5. Living and Dyeing

_Living and Dyeing  
Challenge: Plants_

_August, Year 3014 of the Third Age  
The Eastfold of Rohan_

The fields lay like a carpet of gold glistening in the sun, and all the land was abloom with the healthy glow of summer. Scattered here and there, either in solitude or grouped together in small copses, grew leafy trees full and wide like billowy clouds of foliage against a sky of bright blue. All around lay the endless meadows and fields of the Riddermark, the tall, rippling grass shorn close to the ground after the hay harvest the previous month. The weather had been kind and the season had been a pleasant one - neither too hot nor too rainy - and the wheat and rye harvests were proving to be as bounteous as the hay harvest. Later that month, it would be time to harvest barley and oats.

Toiling beneath the hot summer sun, twin sisters Elfhild and Elffled weeded the family's garden under the supervision of their grandmother. The family's ancient gray dog, Gamolfeax, lay beneath a nearby tree, groaning every now and then in his sleep. The two little girls smiled as they heard distant strains of laughter and song wafting over from the fields and glanced over to see their parents and older brother, Eadfrid, hard at work. Other relatives were helping out with the harvest - Leofgifu and Athelstan, their aunt and uncle on their mother's side; several cousins on both sides of the family; and a few neighbors. The men cut the rye with sickles and scythes, while the women gathered up the stalks into sheaves and bound them with twine. The sheaves would sit in the field for a time until they dried, and then they would be gathered up and threshed and winnowed.

The twins were too young to do much work in the fields, so they weeded the garden instead. Their grandmother worked nearby, hoeing between the rows. Every now and then, she would scold the twins for pulling up a plant instead of a weed. Everyone had to do their part to ensure that the crops did well, both to keep the family from going hungry and to pay rent to the local thane. If the crops failed and a peasant family could not pay their rent, the thane might show them leniency if he was a kind and generous lord, or he could always evict them from their home. If such a calamity occurred, the family might have to give up their freedom for a time and do even more labor for the thane in order to pay off their debts.

When at last the garden was weeded, Grandmother disappeared into the thatched-roof cottage that the family shared to check upon the cauldron of soup that was simmering upon the brazier. With their mother busy in the fields, Grandmother often helped out with the cooking and watched over the girls and their younger cousins. The twins were not sure who was a better cook, their mother or their grandmother. Each woman cooked in her own unique way, and sometimes one would make a certain dish better than the other, but Grandmother's soup was always the best.

Elfhild and Elffled had only one grandmother - the mother of their father, Eadbald. Their grandmother on their mother's side had died in childbirth long before the twins were born. Grandmother was like many other Rohirric women in their early fifties: sandy blonde hair darkened by streaks of gray, bright blue eyes punctuated by a few crow's feet, and tan skin made leathery by working for hours under the hot sun. Her body was muscular, but in recent years she had become somewhat thick in the middle, for taking care of her two young granddaughters was easy work compared to toiling for hours in the fields. Grandmother liked tending the earth, and under her watchful care, the family garden flourished and the flowers bloomed. Often she would hunt through the woods in search of beneficial plants which she could use to make medicines. She had gained much of her knowledge of plants and herbs from her own mother, who had learned from her mother before her. The girls were always impressed by Grandmother's skills as a healer, for under her tender care, the hurts of both man and beast were quickly assuaged.

Yet despite her talents in the healing arts, Grandmother had not been feeling well lately. She often had dizzy spells and headaches, and lately she felt winded when doing strenuous tasks. Taking care of the children was making her soft, she often complained, good-naturedly, of course. The twins were young and did not know the exact nature of their grandmother's ailment, but they did know that she ate a lot of garlic in an attempt to remedy it. Garlic was good at driving away evil spirits, but it certainly made one's breath smell gruesome. The girls much preferred the aromas of Grandmother's medicinal teas which filled the house with wholesome scents that calmed both body and mind.

Soon Grandmother emerged from the dim recesses of the house, two large baskets held in either hand. "I need to dye some more yarn to sell at the next market day," she explained, gesturing with her baskets. "I sold all of my dyed wool and dyestuffs at the Lammas fair, and with the grain harvest going on, I have not had time to gather more."

"Let us help, Grandmother," Elfhild exclaimed as she took one of the baskets and a pair of scissors from her grandmother's hand. Though she had seen her Grandmother dye yarn many times before, the whole process always seemed mysterious to Elfhild, and she was convinced that the woman possessed some arcane knowledge. The women in her father's family were often intuitive and talented in many things, well-favored by the ancestors and on rare occasions blessed with particular knowledge.

"I wonder what shades you will make this time," Elffled remarked, her voice filled with interest. Although the peasant dyer had a good idea what color the finished dye would impart, sometimes the tint which appeared upon the fabric could come as quite a surprise. Grandmother was an adventurous lady when it came to the textile arts. Though she raised certain plants for dye, she would also make dyes from random plants, just to see what color she could get. Over the years, the twins had found out that strawberries could produce a brownish pink dye, while dandelions could impart a pale yellow.

"Living is like dyeing," Grandmother chuckled, quoting a saying of her own creation of which she was especially fond. "You may have a vision in mind, but the result may be something entirely different. What you thought would be beautiful might turn out to be a murky muck, and what you thought would be ordinary can be a thing of extraordinary beauty." Reaching into her basket, she handed Elffled another pair of scissors. "Come, girls. The weld does not harvest itself!"

Grandmother had several plant beds around the house where she grew herbs, medicinal plants, and dye weeds. A patch of sandy soil behind the chicken coop was reserved for weld, for this plant favored dry places such as roadsides and waste places. Weld, commonly used to create yellow dye, was a tall weed with long spikes of yellow flower clusters. Using various plants, Grandmother made dye for the yarn which was used to weave clothing for the family. She always made an abundance of dye so that she could keep a goodly supply for family and friends as well as sell colored yarn and pigments at the village markets. Though the whole dyeing process could take some time, selling the colored yarn was easy coin, for the plants were free, and the mordants which she used to bind the colors were easily available. There would always be stale urine, salt, vinegar, wood ash, and metal filings - all of these things were used as mordants, substances that would both alter the hue of the dyes and keep the pigments from fading as quickly.

"How did you learn how to make so many different kinds of dye?" Elfhild asked as she held out her basket so that Grandmother could drop a stalk of weld into it. They did not cut down the whole plant, for the lower parts of the stalk did not possess much pigment.

"Well, that is quite a story," Grandmother laughed as she worked.

"Oh, please tell us!" Elffled begged, her innocent aquamarine eyes wide and pleading.

"Very well, but you must work whilst you listen," Grandmother admonished them and then began her tale. "When I was a young girl, one of the women who lived in the village could create the most beautiful pigments just by making the slightest alterations in the traditional dye recipes. Her name was Meldes and she had dwelt in Gondor once upon a time. She was the daughter of a wealthy dye merchant from the city of Bangadost."

"Bangadost!" the girls exclaimed in unison. They had never been to Bangadost, but they had heard much about the city. Bangadost was a small city in Anorien, located just a few leagues beyond the border of Gondor and Rohan. Many of the Rohirrim did business there, trading with the Gondorians for goods from the south. The city was the second largest settlement in Anorien, with Minas Tirith being the first. The girls always imagined it as being a place of excitement with bustling markets filled with all sorts of exotic and fascinating goods. Perhaps someday they would get a chance to visit the city, but probably not. The life of a peasant was far too busy for frivolous journeys; there were crops to raise, animals to feed, rent to pay, and little time for travel.

"What fortuitous chance brought Meldes to the Mark?" Elfhild asked as she scratched an insect bite on her arm. She looked up at the flowering plants that towered over her. They were so tall, and she was yet so little!

Elffled snorted in derision. "Why would anyone leave a big city like Bangadost to live in a wretched little village like Grenefeld?"

"Elffled!" her sister gasped in astonishment. "You should not say such things! Grenefeld is our home! All of our family and friends live here!" A very traditional sort of girl, Elfhild's main goal in life involved getting married and having children and raising lots of turnips and carrots. Though she fantasized about far away places just like her twin, her home was in Grenefeld, and she did not want to leave.

"It matters not who lives here. Grenefield is still the most boring place in all of Middle-earth," Elffled muttered, resentfully shoving a handful of weld into her basket. She often dreamed of leaving the plains of Rohan behind and visiting faraway lands and great cities made of stone and palaces filled with gold and silver. She did have difficulty imagining what these grand and wondrous places would look like, however, for the most lavish building she had ever visited was the hall of the local thane, and it, like all of the structures built by the Rohirrim, was naught but a glorified barn.

Grandmother cleared her throat, the sharp noise recapturing the girls' attention. "Girls, I think both of you will enjoy hearing this tale." She smiled, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. The baskets were half filled by now, but there were still plenty of weld flowers left for the picking. "As you know, there are some men whose feet are compelled to wander, who feel the road calling to them. My youngest son, your Uncle Eadgar, is a man of such persuasion, and I wonder sometimes if little Elffled here might not share the same sentiments." Grandmother chuckled as she glanced towards the younger twin, who blushed under her suntanned cheeks.

"I do not think I would like to be a wandering minstrel like Uncle Eadgar, but I would like to travel and see the world someday," Elffled remarked with a coy little giggle. Uncle Eadgar had always been the black sheep of the family. Everywhere he went, he left a trail of unpaid debts, broken hearts, and jaunty little tunes which were difficult to purge from the memory. The twins probably had several cousins whom no one knew about, not even Eadgar, who had fathered them. He was a good musician but he lived in the bard's realm of myth and legend and seldom stepped foot in the real world. Still, every now and then, he would remember his humble origins and come back home to see his family. The twins always loved his visits - their uncle had been to so many places and had so many tales to share.

"Not all men who suffer from wanderlust become minstrels," Grandmother continued. "Many become drovers, and drive livestock to distant markets. Once upon a time, there was a man named Coenred who lived in the village, and in his younger years, he drove cattle from this part of the Eastfold to the markets in Bangadost. When he was in the city, he met Lady Meldes, a fair young lady who was from a very old and traditional Gondorian family. Her father was a wealthy dye merchant who sold dyes which would adorn the robes of noble men and women. Both the drover and the noblewoman fell in love with each other the moment their eyes first met. But Lady Meldes' father would not hear to a marriage with a simple drover, no matter how much his daughter begged and pleaded."

"What happened to Coenred and Lady Meldes?" Elfhild's voice was tense with anticipation. "Did the lady's father finally allow her to get married?"

"Ah, that should be enough weld to supply half the village," Grandmother remarked, looking down at the two baskets of yellow flowers. "Come, girls, let us go back to the house so that I can get these flowers ready to boil. I prepared some woad earlier this morning, but it has to settle for a while so that the pigment will be stronger."

"Please, continue with the story!" Elffled begged, almost whining. "Do not torture us so!"

"I would hardly call such a brief wait a torture," Grandmother laughed as she led the girls towards the house. "I will tell you what happened to Coenred and Meldes while we prepare the weld."

It took a second or two for their eyes to adjust to the inside of the cottage, for though the windows had been opened wide, the room was still dim when compared to the bright, sunny outdoors. The home where the twins, their parents and grandmother lived was like most other peasant dwellings in Rohan: two rooms, one for the animals and the other for the people. A brazier had been built in the center of the main room with vents in the gables allowing the smoke to escape. There was a small loft on the far end of the cottage; this was where the twins slept. Two shelves held the girls' possessions: a collection of dolls made by their mother and grandmother, small treasures found in the woods, and small baskets containing their sewing supplies.

Rummaging around in a small chest along the side of the house, Grandmother fetched a spool of twine and gathered some of the weld into bundles, which she hung from the rafters to dry. The rest of the plants she spread out over a cutting board on the battered old work table which stood near the brazier. Reaching for a pitcher of water, she poured it into a pot which she reserved for dye-making. She took a moment to stir the cauldron of soup which hung from the rack suspended over the fire, and then set the pot of water closer to the heat of the brazier so it would start to boil faster. As she began to chop up the weld flowers, seeds and leaves, she continued her story, occasionally interrupting herself to ask the twins to fetch her certain ingredients and supplies.

"As I was saying, Meldes' father was appalled that his daughter wanted to marry a peasant, and so he forbade the marriage. Even if Coenred had been a nobleman instead of a drover, he still would not have been considered an acceptable husband, for he was not of Gondor." When she was finished chopping up the weld, she dumped the plant matter into the boiling water and then pulled the chain back up so that the pot would simmer. Taking a second pot, she filled it with water and a goodly amount of salt; into this mixture she placed several skeins of yarn. The salt would act as a fixative to keep the dyed yarn from fading as quickly. Putting the the second pot on to simmer beside the pot filled with the weld, she turned back to the girls, wiped off her brow with a kitchen cloth, and smiled. "There, now we can rest a bit."

"I do not understand, Grandmother," Elfhild remarked, a confused expression upon her face as she followed her Grandmother over to one of the benches which sat on either side of the family's well-worn trestle table. Several large barrels were stored nearby, and Grandmother went over to one and poured out three cups of weak ale. Setting the cups down on the table, she took her seat upon the bench and took a long drink. Elfhild resumed speaking, asking the question she had meant to ask. "What did Lady Meldes' father have against our folk? All the Gondorians who have visited the village have been nice."

Grandmother looked thoughtful, her cup held between her hands. "Though most Gondorians are honest, simple folk like us, many of the old families are very proud of their noble bloodlines and want to keep them pure. They only marry into other wealthy families and refuse to allow their sons and daughters to marry folk from other lands, or even other Gondorians whom they deem as having impure blood." She scratched her chin thoughtfully for a moment, and became momentarily distracted by a wild hair which her tweezers had missed. She would have to remedy that matter later… "'Tis a wonder that King Thengel, Théoden's father, married a Gondorian noblewoman, but I would say if a man is the son of a king, he could do just about anything he pleased."

"So what happened to Coenred and the lady?" Elffled took a sip of her ale, not really caring about the marital traditions of highborn Gondorian families.

"Well, Lady Meldes begged and pleaded with her father, but still he would not relent. She was heartbroken, for she loved Coenred greatly. Since her father would not consent to allow the two young lovers to be together, Meldes and Coenred decided to run away and marry in secret. When Meldes' father found out what they had done, he became so enraged that he disowned his daughter. No longer welcome among the nobility of Anorien, she had no choice but to move to Grenefeld with her new husband. He felt that the road was no place to raise a family. Coenred decided to turn aside from his wandering ways, and settled down to be a sheep farmer with his lovely new bride."

"Oh, what a beautiful story." Sighing, Elfhild clasped her hands over her heart and closed her eyes. A sentimental girl, she always liked romantic tales, although most of the tales of her people dealt with war and glory rather than tender emotions such as true love. The stories which passed over the border from Gondor tended to be far more romantic than those of the Rohirrim.

"I think both of them were rather foolish," Elffled muttered, crossing her arms over her chest sullenly. "Of all the places they could have lived, why did they choose Grenefeld? I would have chosen Aldburg, or Edoras… or even Mundburg. The Gondorians may be haughty, but I would wager their city is far more exciting than Grenefeld could ever be!"

"Whether or not you agree or disagree with the decisions of Coenred and Meldes, they happened in the past and we cannot change them," Grandmother pointed out, distracting the two children from quarreling. "By the time that I was a little girl, Meldes was an old lady, and Coenred had been in the halls of the dead for many years. The Gondorians, you see, live much longer than most men, and do not age as quickly."

"Why is that?" Elfhild asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"Many in Gondor are descended from the Númenóreans, an ancient people who were very long lived," Grandmother explained, and then let out an unexpected chuckle. "Oh, my, this conversation is indeed as wandering as a forest trail! The whole reason why I told you the story of Coenred and Meldes was to explain how I learned to create so many different dyes. Lady Meldes was well loved and respected by the folk of Grenefeld, and many sought her out to hear tales of Gondor and her life in Bangadost. When I was a young girl, just a few years older than the two of you, she taught me how to make dyes using techniques which had been kept secret by her family for many years. Of course, in Gondor, the dyes which color the clothing of the wealthy are much brighter, for they use expensive mordants imported from the South. Peasants such as we must suffice with what we have."

"Like the contents of our chamberpots." Elffled made a face.

"Yes, even old urine does have its purposes." Grandmother laughed. "Oh…" Suddenly, she slammed her cup of ale down on the table and pressed her hand to her chest, a pained expression upon her face.

"Is something wrong, Grandmother?" Elfhild gasped in alarm.

"Are - are you well?" Elffled and her sister rushed to their grandmother's side, uncertain what was wrong or what to do.

"Yes, yes… it is passing." Grandmother's smile was strained, her breath ragged. "'Twas just a bit of... indigestion... that is all. I am feeling better already." Her body relaxed and her smile became more sincere. She took a drink from her cup; the twins noticed that her hands were trembling. "Soon the family will be coming in from the fields, so we must finish up the rest of the chores and get supper ready."

"Are you sure that you are not ill, Grandmother?" Elfhild asked, trying to catch the older woman's gaze.

"I am quite well," Grandmother assured them. Taking the corner of her apron, she wiped up the spilled ale as though nothing had ever happened. "Something I ate must not have agreed with me. Now there is work to be done."

After cleaning the cups and stacking them back on their shelf, the twins followed Grandmother out into the warm sunshine, their youthful joy and sense of wonder quickly banishing their fears.

NOTES

The first two paragraphs of this story were written in 2005 for Book Three of "The Circles." This memory of better days came to the girls as they traveled through war-torn Anórien and saw fields, gardens and villages left scorched and barren by the orcs. However, this section of "The Circles" was rewritten, and the scene was edited out. However, I kept it around because I always wanted to do something with it. After almost eight years, I finally found a use for the scene!

The wayward uncle was another concept from the first drafts of "The Circles" as well. I had originally planned to write a lot about the twins' family, but Book One of "The Circles" ended up becoming a fast-paced tale of war and sorrow, too epic in its scope for very many peaceful scenes of peasant life. By writing "100 Nights and Days Within The Circles," I can finally explore some of the concepts which I had to shelve for the main series.

A lot of research went into this story. Special thanks goes out to the Real Elvish Forums, Wild Colours Natural Dyes, and Jenny Dean's Wild Colour Blog.


	6. Letters from Dol Guldur

_Letters from Dol Guldur  
Challenge: Threats_

_Minas Morgul, Year 2941 of the Third Age  
Shortly before the White Council attacked Dol Guldur and Sauron fled in secret to Mordor..._

_There were Nine who had rejoiced in Sauron's defeat, for at last, they thought, they were free of His tyranny. After the downfall of their Master, some of their number journeyed to deserts of the South; others to the broad river plains of the East; and a few went to the steppes of the North. — "The Triumph of The Shadow," The Circles Vol. 1, Chapter 39_

The hexagonal chamber was large, its stone walls plastered and painted a soft shade of ivory; a border of raised vines trailed along the top of the well-appointed walls. Despite the paint and plaster, the famed luminosity of Minas Morgul shone through, softly illuminating the ivory walls with the subtle glow of imprisoned moonbeams. The domed ceiling was painted the colors of surf and sky and featured scenes of ocean sprites splashing and playing among the turquoise waves. Tall, arched windows looked out over the Morgul Vale, which was dusted in a light covering of snow and bathed in moonlight. A fire crackled merrily in the large hearth, and although it lessened the bite of winter, it did little to ward away the preternatural chill which hung over the chamber. Despite the mild climate of Ithilien, the Morgul Vale had a tendency to be unseasonably cool. Still, even in the most bitter of winters, not a single blossom in the poppy meadows or the royal gardens ever wilted, for the arts of sorcery allowed the flowers - and many other living things - to live long past their season.

Tapestries upon the walls depicted scenes of mighty ships with sails as white as snowdrifts; a lush, mountainous landscape surrounded by the waters of the crystal sea; and bucolic scenes of shepherds watching their flocks in the rolling green fields. When one were to gaze overlong upon these works of textile art, a peculiar feeling would come over the beholder, and he would smell the tang of salt in the air, hear the cries of the gulls in the distance, and see hazy visions of an island paradise from ages past…

An ornate desk sat to one side of the chamber, and a figure, kingly and brooding, sat in an ornately carved chair of mahogany, reading a letter in the dim light cast by a silver candelabra. His hair was as dark as the ebony and silver device which adorned his standard, and his eyes were the color of the shimmering sea. Tall he was, and handsome; his regal bearing brought to mind the grandeur of ancient days, a kingdom lost beneath the roiling sea. His muscular form was draped in kingly robes of midnight blue brocaded with thread-of-gold and thread-of-silver and adorned with precious gems; a long, sweeping mantle of snowy ermine and black velvet was held about his shoulders with a brooch in the shape of a crescent moon; a silver crown adorned with sparkling diamonds sat atop his head. A golden band too intricately designed to be wrought by the hand of any Man rested upon his finger. The Ring resembled a circle of leafy vines which twined around a large diamond of extraordinary brilliance; the adamant resembled a fiery white star, a searing rainbow of colors reflecting from crystalline facets mysterious and enchanting.

Another man of similar appearance sat in the chair in front of the desk, a wine goblet of finest crystal held in his pale hand. Though there were many bejeweled rings upon his fingers, an icy blue opal cacabon set within an intricate silver band seemed to stand out from all the rest. The undulating design of the band was reminiscent of ocean waves, and the cloudy surface of the opal was an enchanted pool swirling with tiny flecks of red and gold. The man's style of dress was almost as fine as the King's, though instead of possessing the reserved, stately grace of the monarch, the garments of this lord imparted a rather foppish air. He wore a long tunic of bright emerald velvet adorned with many knightly chains and bejeweled medallions; a short mantle of fox furs was draped around his shoulders, the bushy tails dangling over his fine cloak of umber. A jaunty green cap rested at a sideways angle atop his head, sporting a ridiculously large ostrich plume from Far Harad which bobbed with the slightest movement. If he and the King were both birds, the King would be one of the Great Eagles, and he would be a strutting peacock.

A pair of servants hovered in the shadows, ready to fill their master's goblets with more wine lest the two high lords suffer from want of the fruit of the vine. Given the King's love of drink and the fact that his foppish friend was, in all honesty, a hopeless sot, such a predicament would be a dire one indeed... especially for the servants, who would bear the brunt of their lords' anger. Clad in robes the color of midnight, their hoods hanging low over their bowed heads, the two servants resembled phantoms more than they did pages. Perhaps they were indeed wraiths, tortured and accursed, their spirits bound to bodies whose life had been leeched away by the poison of the Morgul Blade. Or maybe they were just reanimated corpses, driven by the will of their masters and kept preserved by dark magicks lest the stench of rot upset guests in the King's palace. Or perhaps their identities had a much more mundane origin: living men who worked for the Nazgûl to support their families in the lower sections of the city. One never knew about those in the Order of the Silent Servants. Be they living or undead, they were as quiet as the spectre of Death, and just as efficient.

The mood of the man clad in emerald green and fox fur seemed perturbed and restless, as though some great matter weighed heavily upon his mind, and he nursed his goblet like a babe at its mother's breast. Ever did he look towards his King, whose noble face was contorted into a scowl as he studied the missive before him. This was the third or fourth time that the King had read the letter, and with each rereading his mood became even more foul. The air in the chamber seemed thick and heavy, weighted down with a blackness not seen by the eye but felt most acutely by the spirit. Several times did the lord in green open his mouth to speak, but hesitated, licking his pale, dry lips nervously. At last, after much deliberation, he cleared his throat, the noise resounding like thunder in the quiet chamber.

"My lord, do you think it prudent not to respond to His summons?" The voice was tense, hesitant, edged with fear. "This is the third such missive that we have received from Dol Guldur this winter, and its tone is the most urgent yet." The man nervously rubbed the opal cacabon with the pad of his thumb; stroking his Ring always gave him a feeling of tranquility. "Three missives, my lord... Three is a number of great portent. I fear there will not be a fourth letter, only the most terrible of retribution."

"Lord Udu, for almost three thousand years, I have been answering His missives with the briefest of replies, or none at all. A letter from Dol Guldur is as annoying as the constant buzzing of a horsefly. It is my earnest hope that giant spiders overrun the place, and fill the halls of our illustrious Master with reeking offal." The King snorted derisively, his gaze flicking up to stare at his confidant. The Seventh Nazgûl was one of the Morgul Lord's closest companions; their friendship dated back to the Second Age and had begun on a land which now lay within the domain of Ulmo. The King put great trust in Udu, and he was often quite candid in his conversations with the Seventh, sharing confidences and complaints with him that he did not share with any of the other Nazgûl.

"But, my lord, this is a direct command from our Master," Udu replied, too upset even to chuckle at the image of Dol Guldur teeming with spiders as large as horses. "He insists that we travel to Mirkwood. He urges us to come as quickly as we can, for He says that there are vital matters which He must discuss with us in person. We must go to Him as soon as possible…" The wraith's voice became strangely singsong and his gray eyes glazed over, as though the letter penned in Sauron's hand had bewitched him.

"Lord Udu, come to your senses," the King commanded brusquely, rising to his feet to glare down at the Seventh Nazgûl. "You act as though you are about to fall into a trance and run wildly through the city like one of the walking dead, your arms outstretched and your lips muttering gibberish."

"My lord, forgive me." The spell broken, Udu wiped a shaky hand across his brow and downed his goblet in one swallow. Almost instantly, a Silent Servant was by his side, refilling his cup. "As I read that letter, I heard His voice once again in my mind, compelling me to do His bidding."

"Though Sauron is far away in His forest tower, He is still just as dangerous as He would be if He brought an army before the gates of Minas Morgul," the King stated dourly as he began pacing before the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Try to resist His influence! Remember that He cannot fully command our minds unless He is wearing the Ruling Ring, and that little golden band has been lost to time."

"My lord, I…" Udu drank from his goblet like a dying man in the desert drinks water from an oasis. "Yesterday I had a dream where the city was in flames. All around me were the anguished moans of dying men, the screams of women as they were raped by enemy soldiers, the frenzied cries of wounded horses left mortally wounded and masterless, and the harsh squawking of carrion birds as they fought over the feast laid out before them. The air was filled with the stench of smoke and blood and death. Yet I could do nothing... I was bound in chains, powerless. Someone had taken my Ring, and all I could do was watch helplessly as everything I knew was destroyed." He felt tears beginning to sting his eyes and looked down into the crimson pool within his cup. 'Twould do no good for his King to see him weeping.

The King had stopped his incessant pacing to listen intently to Udu's dream. "My friend, that was indeed a terrible nightmare!" His deep voice was filled with sympathy. "Yet you have always been plagued by dreams of dire portent, horrible fantasies in which you see your own death. You worry needlessly, my friend; your evil dream was just that - a dream - and has naught to do with this missive from Dol Guldur." The King paused, his strained face relaxing into a smile. "Besides, despite being a Númenórean of royal blood, your foresight has always been notoriously incorrect." He chuckled good-naturedly at his friend.

"Let us hope that it remains so." Udu laughed weakly as he downed another goblet. Again the Silent Servant was quickly by his side to fill his cup up to the brim. How many goblets had he consumed? Five, six, seven? He could not remember. Ah, the benefits of immortality. A man could drink as much as he liked and pleasure his mistress from the gloaming until the wee hours of dawn. Unfortunately, happiness was not always included in the bargain...

The King paused for a moment to gaze outside at the peaceful snow-covered valley below, the Morgulduin glinting in the moonlight like a satin ribbon of thread-of-silver. In truth, he was far more concerned about Udu's dream than he let on. For some time, a darkness had weighed upon his heart, but he tried to ignore it, blaming it on the responsibilities of rule and the heavy weight of the crown. Whenever Sauron stirred, the Lord of the Nazgûl felt himself growing anxious and found that his thoughts turned towards matters of defense against the threat which lurked in Mirkwood. For centuries, the King had maintained a delicate balance of freedom and fidelity. Though he always had been civil and courteous in his dealings with his old Master, and never allied himself with Sauron's enemies, still the Morgul Lord wanted to be the ruler of his own kingdom and the lord of his own domain instead of just another one of the Dark Lord's many vassals.

Besides desiring to retain a semblance of freedom, or at least deceive himself with the illusion of independence, the King harbored a bitter resentment towards the Dark Lord dating back to the Second Age. Sauron had promised the King the kingdom which would have rightfully been his had a certain unscrupulous monarch not changed the laws of succession so that his daughter might rule as queen. His mind filled with dreams of kingship, the young Númenórean prince had eagerly listened to Sauron's council and accepted a powerful Ring as token of his allegiance. Yet the prince would never sit upon the throne in Armenelos, the sceptre of kingship resting atop his lap. In fact, the faithless Maia was responsible for the downfall of his kingdom and the deaths of thousands of his countrymen. True, Sauron had never intended for Númenor to perish under the waves, but the Morgul Lord still blamed his Master for the destruction of the land and the people which he had once held dear.

"I thought after His defeat at the Battle of the Last Alliance, we were finally done with Him," the King spoke at last, his words filled with the bitterness of the ages. He had resumed his pacing, striding back and forth in front of the window like a sentry on guard duty. "The great Lord of Mordor, His body destroyed yet again, was forced to flee in shame, His armies routed, His Tower destroyed, and His land in ruins. I remember the council that I called upon the battlefield amid the chaos of defeat... With the Ruling Ring in Isildur's possession, I decided it was best that the Nine scatter to the far ends of Middle-earth, lest that conniving little upstart figure out how to use the Ring to command us.

"With no Master to demand our obedience and no Lord to whom we owed our loyalty, the Bearers of the Nine Rings were free to pursue our own designs, to become kings and lords in the lands which we claimed for ourselves. In the frigid north I founded the kingdom of Angmar, while Khamûl returned to Mordor and became the Sultan of Nurn. The others went to Rhûn, Khand, and Harad, often ruling over the descendants of the people they had ruled in the distant past."

"Those were good days in Angmar," Udu remarked, his voice slightly slurred as he raised his goblet in a nostalgic toast to days long past. "Whenever I think of those days, I remember a girl named Mairead from one of the hill tribes… She had the most charming mole on her inner thigh… Ahhh… now that was a woman…" His heart warmed by pleasant memories and too much wine, Udu sighed contentedly and stared into the distance, a lopsided smile plastered on his face.

"Alas for Angmar, my second long lamented kingdom." Ignoring Udu's raunchy recollections, Angmar cleared his throat and continued his monologue, imbuing his words with the gloom of the ages. "Curse the elves of Lindon and the men of Gondor! Had they not joined in the fray, my forces would have won the battle of Fornost, and the North Kingdom would have been united under the banner of Angmar." The King's lips curled up into a smile and his crimson eyes glowed brighter. "But yet vengeance was mine when later I captured the city of my enemy, and then my enemy himself. Though it took many long years to persuade the stubborn fool of my superiority, he finally capitulated and acknowledged me as the rightful king."

"Ah, good Lord Eärnur!" Udu exclaimed drunkenly as he waved his cup in the air, the wine sloshing over the edge. "That reminds me, I do owe him a hefty sack of gold. I lost several bets to him when we were playing dice last week—"

"Udu, this is no time to bring up your gambling debts with my servant!" The King gave the Seventh Nazgûl a withering stare so intimidating that Udu was propelled into a state of instant sobriety. "I do not speak of the past because I want to indulge in fond remembrances over a goblet of wine, or curse my luck at dice and drown my sorrows in the cup. I only dredge up our history because it has bearing on our present. Our Master has not demanded our presence since the end of the Second Age. These questions trouble my mind — what is his purpose, and why has He waited until now?"

"Perhaps He is in some danger?" Udu suggested. He took a leisurely drink from his goblet, wistfully recalling that pleasant state of inebriation which he had been enjoying up until a few moments ago. "Back in 2063, I believe it was, there was a notorious incident in which a spy infiltrated Dol Guldur. Our Master was forced to flee lest the secret of His identity be discovered." The Seventh Nazgûl furrowed his brow, a troubled expression upon his face. "My king, if our Lord is in peril, then we have no choice but to come to His defense. We are bound to Him by bonds far stronger than any alliance forged between a mortal king and his vassals."

"My dear Udu, if our glorious Master were indeed in danger, He would have demanded that we send an army to come to His aid. Since He did not, I believe it is safe to assume that He desires our presence in Dol Guldur for some other reason." A thought came unbidden to the King's mind… a missive from the Dark Lord, almost a hundred years prior, in which was written an account of the capture of the dwarven king Thráin, and the seizure of the last of the Seven Rings. For a moment, he wondered if Sauron would ever seek to possess the Nine Rings… Since the Dark Lord had imbued the Seven and the Nine with His strength, if these Rings were returned to their Creator, He would regain a part of the power He had possessed in ancient days. It seemed unlikely that the One Ring would ever be found, but Sauron already had the Seven, and the Nine were easily obtainable... All Sauron had to do was invite them to Dol Guldur, and then command them to surrender their Rings. But, no, that was absurd… the Nazgûl were the Dark Lord's own servants, and they could serve their Master better if they had the freedom to wield their Rings. And, besides, their Master would never betray them so cruelly…

The King shook his head. "Perhaps I am reading too much into these missives."

"What will you do, my lord?"

"I will give Him the same answer I always have." The King let out a wry chuckle, a dry bark of a sound. "Whether His motives be for good or ill, I have no intention that any of the Nine should travel to Dol Guldur. I will respond to His summons, but regretfully inform Him that I am far too occupied here to make a journey to Mirkwood. The Brotherhood of the Nine must guard the borders of Mordor and keep watch upon the Gondorians. Though they have grown weak and complacent with the passage of time, there is a hidden strength there, for the ancient blood still runs through their veins." The wraith smiled softly to himself. "I know my own kinsfolk well. Our Master is also aware of the hidden reserves of strength which they possess, and He cannot deny the threat that they pose to Minas Morgul and Mordor. Unless Dol Guldur is being attacked, we cannot abandon our post here."

The King returned to His chair, dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write. The pen traveled quickly over the paper, for he had written these same words many times before, the old tried and true excuses and simpering apologies. Always did the King balance duty with his own designs. He played a dangerous game with his Master, and he was exceptionally good at keeping the Dark Lord in check. This time would be no different, he thought to himself. There was no need to worry, for he was safe in his city of Minas Morgul, surrounded by his friends, his Númenórean relics, his lily ponds and flower gardens, and the beautiful women whom he kept as companions to amuse him in idle hours.

NOTES

To find out what happens to the Witch-king and the rest of the Nazgûl, read Chapters 36-41 of Book One of The Circles, "The Triumph of the Shadow."


End file.
